Niccolò Paganini

"Sir, wake up."

Ro-13's voice cut through his dreams, all metal and sharp edges. Adrian groaned and buried his face deeper into the cushions, breathing in lavender - not the fake stuff he knew, but something older, real.

"Five more minutes..." The words came out like sandpaper.

Then pain exploded across his cheek. He jerked upright.

"What the hell?" He touched his stinging face, glaring at the robot. "You hit me?"
"It's past noon, Sir." Was that smugness in Ro-13's synthesized voice?

"Since when do you care about..." Adrian stopped. His eyes caught on dark wooden beams climbing the walls, elaborate ceiling work he'd never seen before. Heavy furniture loomed in the shadows, nothing like the clean lines and smart-materials of home. Everything smelled of dust and time.

"Where are we?"

"Nicolo Paganini's residence."

The name clicked something in his head. Last night's memories surfaced slowly, like trying to read through muddy water. "Paganini... That DJ from the underground club?"

"No, Sir. Nicolo Paganini - the violinist. His carriage ran into us last night. He offered shelter before the night watch found us."

The curtains parted with a rustle of heavy fabric, letting in golden light that made Adrian squint. But his irritation vanished at the sight before him. Through the slightly warped windowpanes, he discovered a forest of masts and sails dancing on the waves. The sea air, heavy with salt and fish scents, tickled his nostrils. It was so different from the sanitized smells of his world.

Sunlight burst in as the curtains drew back. Adrian blinked against the glare, then forgot to breathe. Through wavering glass, a forest of masts swayed against the sky. Salt air hit his lungs, heavy with fish and seaweed and rope - nothing like the filtered atmosphere he'd grown up with. Real air. Past air.

"Paganini..." he whispered. The devil's violinist. Everyone knew that story - the man who played so beautifully, people swore he'd sold his soul. Skeletal thin, fingers like spiders, and eyes that burned when he performed. The greatest virtuoso of the nineteenth century, they said.

And somehow, Adrian was standing in his house.

Sudenly a music hit them like a wall. Adrian looked at Ro-13, then followed the sound down the hallway. They found him in the salon, bow flying over strings, back turned to the door.

The notes weren't beautiful - they were violent, perfect, cutting. Adrian couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

Paganini didn't acknowledge them. His fingers blurred across the fingerboard while the bow slashed through air, each movement bigger than it needed to be. Theater and technique, wrapped into one.

The final note screamed. "No one taught you manners?" Paganini's voice dripped acid. He hadn't even turned around.

When he did turn, his dark eyes cut through them like knives. The violin hung from those spider-fingers like something he'd killed himself.

But Adrian wasn't scared. He saw his chance - his door into something bigger than himself. "Sorry about barging in. And thanks. For last night."

"Hmph." Paganini waved it away. "I was merely passing by. Had I left you there, rumors would have spread that I'd killed someone." He pointed at the sofa to sit, snatched up a wanted notice. "Now, explain this to me."

"Sir," Ro-13 whispered urgently, "I don't think it would be wise to—"

"No." Adrian cut him off. "He saved us, he deserves the truth... except for the part about the future."

Adrian told his story. Paganini's thin lips curved up.

"Tell me..." The violinist stood, instrument ready. "Ever seen death up close?"

The violin found his chin before Adrian could answer.

The music froze everything. It followed heartbeats, breaths, the space between living and dying. Adrian couldn't look away. The notes screamed high, dropped into darkness, pulled something ancient and afraid out of his chest.

Then silence.

Adrian felt mortality for the first time in his sanitized, death-proof life. Really felt it.

Paganini's smile showed teeth. He held out the violin. "Your turn."

Adrian took it with shaking hands. Ro-13 shifted nervously beside him. "Sir, perhaps we should start smaller? A nice recorder, maybe?"

But Adrian was already stroking the wood, imagining the magic he'd make, the crowds he'd move. He had no idea what he was getting into.

The bow touched the string. Adrian breathed in. And hell broke loose.

The sound could've killed small animals. Something between rusty door's creak and nails on a chalkboard ripped through the air while Paganini clutched his ears.

"By all the demons of hell!" The violinist lunged for his instrument. Adrian danced backward. "Hold on! Just warming up. Give me a minute to figure it out."

"Sir, this isn't your simulation room," Ro-13 tried.

Adrian ignored him and started again. Hours bled into each other, each attempt worse than the last. When darkness came, he finally stopped, arms trembling. Behind him lay a battlefield of unconscious bodies - Paganini and his servants sprawled out, twitching, foam on their lips.

"Sir!" Ro-13's warning lights strobed red. "You've killed them!"

"Just... take them to bed. I need to practice more—" Adrian's knees buckled and he hit the floor.

Morning brought Paganini back with a skull-splitting headache. He stumbled down the hall until— "MY VIOLIN!" The scream rattled windows.

Then he heard it. That ungodly noise. He kicked open the door and froze: there was Adrian, eyes wild and bloodshot, murdering music while Ro-13 projected some kind of containment field around them both.

Paganini ripped the violin away. "ENOUGH! Why do you persist like this?"

Adrian looked up at him, shadows under his eyes like bruises. "I've been sleeping through life. Following rules, playing safe. Then I heard you play last night and..." He waved his hands, searching for words. "It was like someone finally turned on the light in a dark room."

Something in those tired eyes made Paganini pause. He knew that look. That hunger.

"You won't progress by attacking it like a savage," he said finally. "But if you want to learn... really learn..."

"What, make a deal with the devil?" Adrian's mouth twitched.

"Maybe." Paganini's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"How wonderful, Sir," Ro-13 chimed in.

"Rules." Paganini's voice cracked like a whip. "I don't waste time. You learn my way or not at all. Music isn't some hobby - it owns you. Everything you are. Clear?"

Adrian nodded so hard his head might fall off. "Anything. Everything."

"Sir, I could upload Paganini's complete works and techniques—" Ro-13 started.

"No." Adrian cut him off. "For once in my life, I want to earn something." He looked down at his hands, thinking about his world where everything came too easy, where nothing felt real anymore. "I want to do this myself."

"You need five years just for the basics," Paganini said, eyes dark. "Sixteen to match me."

"Five years? Father's birthday is next month!"

"Sir," Ro-13 whispered, "One year here equals one day in our time."

"In that case, one year will be enough."

A cruel smile twisted Paganini's lips. "So confident? Let's raise the stakes - fail, and I report you. Deal?"

"Deal."

That year changed everything.

The first three months nearly broke him. Theory, endless theory, drilled into his skull until his dreams were filled with notes and scales. Paganini showed no mercy.

"True mastery," he'd say between Adrian's attempts, "comes from the basics." his voice cold and sharp.

Adrian's fingers bled. The violin became both salvation and torture, each misplaced note drawing Paganini's hawk-like stare. Blisters formed, burst, callused over.

"Again!"

Exhaustion crept in like fog. Adrian lost track of time, marking days only by new sheets of music, each more impossible than the last. His hair started falling out in clumps.

Through the haze of another sleepless night, Paganini's words cut deep: "Want to play like me? Learn to crawl before you sprint."

Adrian discovered what perseverance really meant somewhere between months four and six. Those early violin attempts - well, at least the servants stopped fainting, though they still ran at the first screech.

"Even my dying cat plays better!" Paganini would roar.

Teeth clenched, brow furrowed just a bit, Adrian kept at it. Ro-13 watched with encouraging looks while his hands screamed in protest.

Then came months seven through nine. Something shifted. One harbor morning, as light crept over the water, Adrian played through an entire phrase without butchering a single note. Paganini had his mouth open, ready to yell - but nothing came out.

"That's... acceptable," he grumbled, clearly irritated at finding nothing to criticize. Adrian had to bite his cheek hard to keep from grinning like an idiot.

The last month lit everything on fire. His fingers finally got it, really got it. Music poured out of that violin like it had been trapped inside all along, just waiting.

When Adrian played his final piece, Paganini just stood there afterward, pride flickering in those stern eyes. "Remarkable," he said softly. "You've done better than I hoped."

Adrian lowered the violin, grinning despite himself. A year of pure hell, and here he was - one of the greatest violinists history would ever know.

Paganini studied Adrian, his dark eyes unreadable. "And what now?"

"Going home. Thanks for everything."

A thin smile crossed the violinist's gaunt face. "Keep your thanks. Just remember what you learned here."

Heavy pounding shook the door. Paganini scowled and stalked over, yanking it open.

"What?" he snapped.

The man outside gave a stilted bow. "Forgive the intrusion, Maestro. The police show him a wanted poster. "Have you ever seen any of these people before?"

Paganini glanced back but found empty air. His lips twitched slightly.

"Memory fails with age. Now if you'll excuse me..." The door slammed in the officer's reddening face.

Back in his salon, Paganini ran his fingers across the violin strings with an absent touch. Drawing the instrument to his shoulder, he let out a slow breath and began to play "La Campanella." The familiar notes took on new life tonight.

Adrian and Ro-13 materialized in the future, landing on a playground, surrounded by artificial foliage.

"So, Sir, did you enjoy this adventure?" Ro-13's sensor pulsed a peaceful green.

Adrian stared at the manufactured sky. "Yeah... you could say that." His voice grew rough. "Wish Gramps could see all this."

"But Sir, your grandfather isn't dead. He still travels the past."

Adrian blinked . "Wait, what? And never returns?"

"Oh, he returns often. Leaves artifacts in your basement while you sleep."

Adrian shook his head, grinning. "Crafty old man." Standing, his eyes sparked with mischief. "Shame to keep this adventure to ourselves, isn't it?"

And so Adrian and Ro-13  set out to inject some chaos into an overly ordered world.